Operation: We'll Always Have Paris - Log 3
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xp_logsX-Force arrives at the Paris Hellfire Club, most of them in style.
Paris' 7th arrondissement was no stranger to wealth and affluence. The district boosted numerous former places and mansions, many now housing embassies, and government functions. It was the home of the Eiffel Tower and noted museums like the Musée d'Orsay and the Musée Rodin. Its residents had included luminaries like Karl Lagerfeld, Mick Jagger, and Serge Gainsbourg in the Left Bank. And most important for tonight, next to the Gros Caillou neighbourhood with enviable sightlines on Les Invalides, was the home of the Paris Hellfire Club. It had been the home of the club since the establishment of the Paris branch during the 17th century. Its secretive nature and quiet political power had allowed it to ride out both the revolution and the chaos of the next two centuries of war without allowing their profile to be known outside of a monied elite. Following the Second World War, much like the other clubs, Paris felt more comfortable stepping into the light, confirming their status as a locus of money and power. While still far from a household name, the club attracts money, power and celebrity with their parties and events.
Unlike their normal events, this one was under lockdown. The normal paparazzi were confined well back from the entrance and the typical red carpet was absent; the path from the road to the doors obscured from the street by curtains of silk. It wasn’t until through the security and into the lobby that the opulence of the court re-established itself, as each party was announced by an official in a mix of silver and gold livery that staff who served both courts.
“The White Court of the New York Hellfire Club, represented by Her Majesty, the White Queen, Mlle. Emma Frost. Her court – White Knight M. Doug Ramsey. White Bishop Mlle. Hope Abbott and companion.” He called out and all eyes pivoted to regard the court on their entrance. After all, it was rare to have the head of an outside court visit.
Doug stood very precisely back and to Emma's left, where decorum and tradition dictated. On her left to provide service or defense of the 'weak' side, at least for those right-handers in the world without Emma's telepathic awareness. He almost wished he could have justified wearing his broadsword on his back for the occasion, but he had to content himself with a few discreetly concealed weapons instead. Overt displays tended to be frowned on, even if he did enjoy the bit of swagger a sword brought out. He scanned the attendees casually, at once on the lookout for threats and boring conversationalists.
Silk in a shade that was just off white floated behind Hope as she stepped slightly to the right and back of Ms. Frost. Her face serene, but her eyes flashing around the room as she scanned the various faces present, most of them carefully memorized along with their most vital data. Most of the eyes only flicked over her in return, focusing on the woman in front of her instead, but those nods offered, she returned graciously.
There was a certain prestige, a heady feeling that came from being announced publicly, to have everyone's eyes swivel to the door as you stepped through it. Today, their focus was on the white court, as it should be, these were their peers and competitors. Gathered to discuss the business of the court, to gain what advantages they could. A small smile touched the corner of Sue's lips as she let herself drift behind Hope and he others, eyes scanning the room. Most of the names were known to her, but tonight she wasn't here to make deals or exert her own influence, she could afford to just watch and enjoy the show, and provide support if needed. A hand smoothed the silk of her cream dress as she laughed internally, oh, this would be fun.
~Darlings, you all do me proud,~ Emma sent the words to her small court party. ~And be proud. Remember how fabulous you all are.~ She raised her own chin, an imperious gaze sweeping across the assembly, a telepathic probe doing the same, tasting awe and envy, desire and delight at the sight they made. Her queen’s regalia was the classic style, but Emma had chosen to supplement it with diamonds today, a reminder of her other mutation. Diamonds dazzled at ears and on fingers, around her wrists and ankles and a complicated net that skimmed and dazzled from neck to waist, echoed in subtle pins that shone in her hair.
~Now,~ she added. ~Let’s see if anyone is tempted by the bait.
***
“The Blue Court of the London Hellfire Club, represented by Her Majesty, the Blue Queen, Mlle. Emma Steed and companion, and Blue Court Ambassadors Mlle. Topaz and Mlle. Clea.” He called out as the Blue Court stepped in. Their finery matched the deep royal blue worn by the Blue Queen, although the buzz was split between her and the presence of Christian Kane; sure to set off a hundred rumours.
No one was paying much attention to the small Indian woman walking behind the Queen and Kane, and that served her just fine. Topaz pretended to busy herself with adjusting the cuffs on the suit jacket Marie-Ange had delighted in taking her shopping for while she cast a wide mental net around the room. Shock and awe were the primary emotions at the moment. No surprise.
Clea stepped next to Topaz, as she scanned the room. Seeing a mixture of colors, that happened her see who belonged to which Courts. "Showtime." She said softly, ready to mingle. "Shall we?"
"Be ready. Paris and London have... complicated histories." Christian said with a toothy smile.
"Hush Christian. We are all allies here." Emma Steed said with a purr. "Allies like snakes in a pit fighting for the same prey, all venomous and ready to kill. Welcome to the club."
“Silver Court legacy member Felicia Hardy and companion.” He called out, identifying Felicia immediately despite her never having set foot inside the club. It had been years since the death of her Grandmama, and yet, her status as a qualifying member of the Silver Court was never in doubt.
North patted Felicia's hand where it rested on his arm as they entered, gaze casually scanning could be seen from the entrance of the opulent venue. Despite his own lack of fondness for formal events and fripperies, his companion had taken too much effort on their appearance for him to make any comments about his preference for joining the crew in the kitchen. He acted his part as arm candy for a lady of far more import than him, seamlessly avoiding the curious looks cast Felicia's way at their announcement as he navigated them to a suitable spot in the general gathering of colours that matched that of his bowtie and lapels.
In a dress the colour of liquid starlight, Felicia drew up close to North as they turned and with a final ripple, stilled. She was on display here, and from the wink she gave to the older woman across the room doing a poor job at hiding her open gossiping, she was thriving in it. "This is going to be so much fun," she murmured low, tilting up her chin so her lips brushed his ear.
**
“The Red Court of the London Hellfire Club, represented by Ambassadors M. Arthur Maddox and Mlle. Jubilation Lee.” There was a flicker of interest, but it was momentary. Ambassadors from foreign courts were common in events like this, usually low level members just there to show the appropriate respect. Exactly the kind of circumstances Snow Valley liked best for their operatives.
Jubilee entered, at a sedate strut, her mind concentrated on the word ‘murder’ to get the right amount of arrogance and old money into her facial expression. One hand rested lightly against Artie’s arm as she kept a keen eye on those around her. It was not her first Court party, nor would it be her last, although in this case it was the first she’d attended not as a White Court hanger on, or random kitchen staff.
She’d had Doug vet her English accent, which she was pretty sure had given him an aneurism a few years back when they’d first started working on her acting skills.
She’d spent time and effort on it, and was mostly capable of fitting in these days without too much fuss.
She only put on the bad French accent these days for the fun of making Marie-Ange drink.
Artie, on her arm, was a silent, confident presence. His synthesiser was concealed in a necklace he wore instead of a tie, the machine's processor strapped to his side under his arm where it was unnoticeable. He nodded to the crowd and kept moving.
***
“The Black Court of the New York Hellfire Club, represented by Ambassadors Mlle. Wanda Maximoff and Mlle. Darcy Lewis.” Like with Artie and Jubilee, their presence was quickly noted and just as quickly discarded, with just a touch of curiosity lingering about the Black Court, which rarely made their presence known at these events.
"Always save the best for last," Darcy murmured to Wanda as they were introduced. Her confident stride took her into the room with all of the arrogance expected from a woman under the direction of the infamous Black King, an imperious gaze sweeping over the splendor and glamour of the French club as if such finery was the absolute bare minimum expected of the branch with such a long, storied history.
Hints of his touch - at least, the likely assumption those in the building would make, all by design - were apparent in her dress and jewels as well. A black lace overlay hugged her body, covering her shoulders and dropping to a high V in the front - a hint of her cleavage but no more - and skimmed over her hips, nipping in at the knees before flaring out slightly and barely kissing the floor with each deliberate step of her heels. Strategic cut-outs framed in black leather continued the tease - at her knees, revealing just a hint of the backs and side and just over her hips to give a tantalizing feel of flesh should someone lead her in one of the more formal dances - with the rest creating structured shoulders and reinforcing the low V dropping down her back. In comparison, the parure she'd been loaned - delivered by courier with instructions to enjoy wearing the pieces but take excellent care of them - was deceptively simple. A double strand of multicolored pearls dotted with diamonds wrapped around her neck, matching cuff-like bracelets on each wrist, and a simple drop pair of earrings completed the set.
She ended her movement near the others, casting the same gaze over them as she had over the interior of the room and steeling herself to play the game. There was a job to do and a report to make. All else was quite irrelevant for the moment.
As Darcy had gone one way, Wanda had drifted off in the opposite direction. Like Darcy, she'd dressed carefully to draw attention to the Black Court aura they were putting off. Her signature red touches were nowhere to be seen. The dress was as dark as midnight with lighter touches swirling from the high collar that just touched Wanda's jaw bone and cupped the back of her neck to the wide skirt. Wanda. The dress might have looked old fashioned had it not been for the plunging neck line, enhanced with what appeared to be a black diamond necklace.
Without a glance at the waitstaff, Wanda plucked a glass of wine as she gazed around the room. Pretending to take a sip, she started to move through the crowd, making note of familiar faces or names as they were mentioned.
It was time to start circling the sharks.
***
As the party raged upstairs, the kitchens were a hive of activity as servers moved in an unending circuit, collecting trays of hors d'oeuvres from the marble topped pass under the eye of a red faced head chef, who only paused his torrent of curses and profane oaths to the chefs to motion for another server to collect a ready platter. On the other side of the room, the under sommeliers poured coupes of champagne and burgundies under the stark gaze of the clubs head sommelier; a woman who betrayed no emotion save for the odd flash of contempt when a server slightly jostled the glasses while collecting the tray.
Over in the kitchen, the plates and trays came back at a quick clip, ending up stacked in tall piles and shifted to the dishwashing stations.
Amanda set a tray of empty glasses down on the counter near the dishwashing station, the fake bright smile she'd been wearing for the guest dropping from her face. "I swear, if one more fat bastard cracks onto me..." she muttered to no-one in particular and playing up the role of waitress-for-hire. "At least the money's good."
Sarah sighed dramatically from the sink. "At least you all get to see the party. This is like the wildest season of Real Housewives and I can only experience it through spoilers and podcast recaps. I need the gossip please." She was mostly kidding, but she wouldn't be mad if someone had a juicy story she could pocket for later.
"I." Marie-Ange said. "have made a list of people to stab" No one had touched her, but the sour expression and bun so tight it could have been used as a facelift had spoken warning to anyone who thought of it. Her shoes, trouser, pristine white shirt, and serving apron all said severe and perhaps lacking anything resembling a sense of humor. "That shall the be gossip. Wait staff stabs, and flees through a window, and then I will don a wig and make my triumphant return to stab again." She let the facade crack for a moment and glanced at the head sommelier "Or our boss will beat me at my own game. I think her face may be stuck like that." For once, her Lyons accent was in full effect.
"I think her Grandmother might have had this job in the 60s. She looks entirely too familiar." Kevin had been particularly bland looking, handling the heavy trays of wine glasses with impeccable skill; the liquid barely rippling as he took up yet another full tray. "So far, it's just a typical gaudy HFC party, Maybe we'll get lucky and the whole threat was just rumours." He shrugged. "Hey, it's bound to break that way for us sometime."
Paris' 7th arrondissement was no stranger to wealth and affluence. The district boosted numerous former places and mansions, many now housing embassies, and government functions. It was the home of the Eiffel Tower and noted museums like the Musée d'Orsay and the Musée Rodin. Its residents had included luminaries like Karl Lagerfeld, Mick Jagger, and Serge Gainsbourg in the Left Bank. And most important for tonight, next to the Gros Caillou neighbourhood with enviable sightlines on Les Invalides, was the home of the Paris Hellfire Club. It had been the home of the club since the establishment of the Paris branch during the 17th century. Its secretive nature and quiet political power had allowed it to ride out both the revolution and the chaos of the next two centuries of war without allowing their profile to be known outside of a monied elite. Following the Second World War, much like the other clubs, Paris felt more comfortable stepping into the light, confirming their status as a locus of money and power. While still far from a household name, the club attracts money, power and celebrity with their parties and events.
Unlike their normal events, this one was under lockdown. The normal paparazzi were confined well back from the entrance and the typical red carpet was absent; the path from the road to the doors obscured from the street by curtains of silk. It wasn’t until through the security and into the lobby that the opulence of the court re-established itself, as each party was announced by an official in a mix of silver and gold livery that staff who served both courts.
“The White Court of the New York Hellfire Club, represented by Her Majesty, the White Queen, Mlle. Emma Frost. Her court – White Knight M. Doug Ramsey. White Bishop Mlle. Hope Abbott and companion.” He called out and all eyes pivoted to regard the court on their entrance. After all, it was rare to have the head of an outside court visit.
Doug stood very precisely back and to Emma's left, where decorum and tradition dictated. On her left to provide service or defense of the 'weak' side, at least for those right-handers in the world without Emma's telepathic awareness. He almost wished he could have justified wearing his broadsword on his back for the occasion, but he had to content himself with a few discreetly concealed weapons instead. Overt displays tended to be frowned on, even if he did enjoy the bit of swagger a sword brought out. He scanned the attendees casually, at once on the lookout for threats and boring conversationalists.
Silk in a shade that was just off white floated behind Hope as she stepped slightly to the right and back of Ms. Frost. Her face serene, but her eyes flashing around the room as she scanned the various faces present, most of them carefully memorized along with their most vital data. Most of the eyes only flicked over her in return, focusing on the woman in front of her instead, but those nods offered, she returned graciously.
There was a certain prestige, a heady feeling that came from being announced publicly, to have everyone's eyes swivel to the door as you stepped through it. Today, their focus was on the white court, as it should be, these were their peers and competitors. Gathered to discuss the business of the court, to gain what advantages they could. A small smile touched the corner of Sue's lips as she let herself drift behind Hope and he others, eyes scanning the room. Most of the names were known to her, but tonight she wasn't here to make deals or exert her own influence, she could afford to just watch and enjoy the show, and provide support if needed. A hand smoothed the silk of her cream dress as she laughed internally, oh, this would be fun.
~Darlings, you all do me proud,~ Emma sent the words to her small court party. ~And be proud. Remember how fabulous you all are.~ She raised her own chin, an imperious gaze sweeping across the assembly, a telepathic probe doing the same, tasting awe and envy, desire and delight at the sight they made. Her queen’s regalia was the classic style, but Emma had chosen to supplement it with diamonds today, a reminder of her other mutation. Diamonds dazzled at ears and on fingers, around her wrists and ankles and a complicated net that skimmed and dazzled from neck to waist, echoed in subtle pins that shone in her hair.
~Now,~ she added. ~Let’s see if anyone is tempted by the bait.
***
“The Blue Court of the London Hellfire Club, represented by Her Majesty, the Blue Queen, Mlle. Emma Steed and companion, and Blue Court Ambassadors Mlle. Topaz and Mlle. Clea.” He called out as the Blue Court stepped in. Their finery matched the deep royal blue worn by the Blue Queen, although the buzz was split between her and the presence of Christian Kane; sure to set off a hundred rumours.
No one was paying much attention to the small Indian woman walking behind the Queen and Kane, and that served her just fine. Topaz pretended to busy herself with adjusting the cuffs on the suit jacket Marie-Ange had delighted in taking her shopping for while she cast a wide mental net around the room. Shock and awe were the primary emotions at the moment. No surprise.
Clea stepped next to Topaz, as she scanned the room. Seeing a mixture of colors, that happened her see who belonged to which Courts. "Showtime." She said softly, ready to mingle. "Shall we?"
"Be ready. Paris and London have... complicated histories." Christian said with a toothy smile.
"Hush Christian. We are all allies here." Emma Steed said with a purr. "Allies like snakes in a pit fighting for the same prey, all venomous and ready to kill. Welcome to the club."
“Silver Court legacy member Felicia Hardy and companion.” He called out, identifying Felicia immediately despite her never having set foot inside the club. It had been years since the death of her Grandmama, and yet, her status as a qualifying member of the Silver Court was never in doubt.
North patted Felicia's hand where it rested on his arm as they entered, gaze casually scanning could be seen from the entrance of the opulent venue. Despite his own lack of fondness for formal events and fripperies, his companion had taken too much effort on their appearance for him to make any comments about his preference for joining the crew in the kitchen. He acted his part as arm candy for a lady of far more import than him, seamlessly avoiding the curious looks cast Felicia's way at their announcement as he navigated them to a suitable spot in the general gathering of colours that matched that of his bowtie and lapels.
In a dress the colour of liquid starlight, Felicia drew up close to North as they turned and with a final ripple, stilled. She was on display here, and from the wink she gave to the older woman across the room doing a poor job at hiding her open gossiping, she was thriving in it. "This is going to be so much fun," she murmured low, tilting up her chin so her lips brushed his ear.
**
“The Red Court of the London Hellfire Club, represented by Ambassadors M. Arthur Maddox and Mlle. Jubilation Lee.” There was a flicker of interest, but it was momentary. Ambassadors from foreign courts were common in events like this, usually low level members just there to show the appropriate respect. Exactly the kind of circumstances Snow Valley liked best for their operatives.
Jubilee entered, at a sedate strut, her mind concentrated on the word ‘murder’ to get the right amount of arrogance and old money into her facial expression. One hand rested lightly against Artie’s arm as she kept a keen eye on those around her. It was not her first Court party, nor would it be her last, although in this case it was the first she’d attended not as a White Court hanger on, or random kitchen staff.
She’d had Doug vet her English accent, which she was pretty sure had given him an aneurism a few years back when they’d first started working on her acting skills.
She’d spent time and effort on it, and was mostly capable of fitting in these days without too much fuss.
She only put on the bad French accent these days for the fun of making Marie-Ange drink.
Artie, on her arm, was a silent, confident presence. His synthesiser was concealed in a necklace he wore instead of a tie, the machine's processor strapped to his side under his arm where it was unnoticeable. He nodded to the crowd and kept moving.
***
“The Black Court of the New York Hellfire Club, represented by Ambassadors Mlle. Wanda Maximoff and Mlle. Darcy Lewis.” Like with Artie and Jubilee, their presence was quickly noted and just as quickly discarded, with just a touch of curiosity lingering about the Black Court, which rarely made their presence known at these events.
"Always save the best for last," Darcy murmured to Wanda as they were introduced. Her confident stride took her into the room with all of the arrogance expected from a woman under the direction of the infamous Black King, an imperious gaze sweeping over the splendor and glamour of the French club as if such finery was the absolute bare minimum expected of the branch with such a long, storied history.
Hints of his touch - at least, the likely assumption those in the building would make, all by design - were apparent in her dress and jewels as well. A black lace overlay hugged her body, covering her shoulders and dropping to a high V in the front - a hint of her cleavage but no more - and skimmed over her hips, nipping in at the knees before flaring out slightly and barely kissing the floor with each deliberate step of her heels. Strategic cut-outs framed in black leather continued the tease - at her knees, revealing just a hint of the backs and side and just over her hips to give a tantalizing feel of flesh should someone lead her in one of the more formal dances - with the rest creating structured shoulders and reinforcing the low V dropping down her back. In comparison, the parure she'd been loaned - delivered by courier with instructions to enjoy wearing the pieces but take excellent care of them - was deceptively simple. A double strand of multicolored pearls dotted with diamonds wrapped around her neck, matching cuff-like bracelets on each wrist, and a simple drop pair of earrings completed the set.
She ended her movement near the others, casting the same gaze over them as she had over the interior of the room and steeling herself to play the game. There was a job to do and a report to make. All else was quite irrelevant for the moment.
As Darcy had gone one way, Wanda had drifted off in the opposite direction. Like Darcy, she'd dressed carefully to draw attention to the Black Court aura they were putting off. Her signature red touches were nowhere to be seen. The dress was as dark as midnight with lighter touches swirling from the high collar that just touched Wanda's jaw bone and cupped the back of her neck to the wide skirt. Wanda. The dress might have looked old fashioned had it not been for the plunging neck line, enhanced with what appeared to be a black diamond necklace.
Without a glance at the waitstaff, Wanda plucked a glass of wine as she gazed around the room. Pretending to take a sip, she started to move through the crowd, making note of familiar faces or names as they were mentioned.
It was time to start circling the sharks.
***
As the party raged upstairs, the kitchens were a hive of activity as servers moved in an unending circuit, collecting trays of hors d'oeuvres from the marble topped pass under the eye of a red faced head chef, who only paused his torrent of curses and profane oaths to the chefs to motion for another server to collect a ready platter. On the other side of the room, the under sommeliers poured coupes of champagne and burgundies under the stark gaze of the clubs head sommelier; a woman who betrayed no emotion save for the odd flash of contempt when a server slightly jostled the glasses while collecting the tray.
Over in the kitchen, the plates and trays came back at a quick clip, ending up stacked in tall piles and shifted to the dishwashing stations.
Amanda set a tray of empty glasses down on the counter near the dishwashing station, the fake bright smile she'd been wearing for the guest dropping from her face. "I swear, if one more fat bastard cracks onto me..." she muttered to no-one in particular and playing up the role of waitress-for-hire. "At least the money's good."
Sarah sighed dramatically from the sink. "At least you all get to see the party. This is like the wildest season of Real Housewives and I can only experience it through spoilers and podcast recaps. I need the gossip please." She was mostly kidding, but she wouldn't be mad if someone had a juicy story she could pocket for later.
"I." Marie-Ange said. "have made a list of people to stab" No one had touched her, but the sour expression and bun so tight it could have been used as a facelift had spoken warning to anyone who thought of it. Her shoes, trouser, pristine white shirt, and serving apron all said severe and perhaps lacking anything resembling a sense of humor. "That shall the be gossip. Wait staff stabs, and flees through a window, and then I will don a wig and make my triumphant return to stab again." She let the facade crack for a moment and glanced at the head sommelier "Or our boss will beat me at my own game. I think her face may be stuck like that." For once, her Lyons accent was in full effect.
"I think her Grandmother might have had this job in the 60s. She looks entirely too familiar." Kevin had been particularly bland looking, handling the heavy trays of wine glasses with impeccable skill; the liquid barely rippling as he took up yet another full tray. "So far, it's just a typical gaudy HFC party, Maybe we'll get lucky and the whole threat was just rumours." He shrugged. "Hey, it's bound to break that way for us sometime."
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